


Con Job

by LilithsLullaby



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Choking, Conventions, Daddy Kink, F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 16:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithsLullaby/pseuds/LilithsLullaby
Summary: When you are dragged to a convention, you are convinced you won't find anything of value to bide your time. However, a strange man peaks your interest.





	Con Job

**Author's Note:**

> Memorial Day Weekend is such a popular time for conventions. Just attended one myself and came up with the idea for this little number of shameless/plotless smut. I know I have a lot of other pieces I should be working on but this was a bit of a fun break from the norm. Hope you all enjoy!

**Image Inspiration**

Let us all take a moment to appreciate the Hiddlebutt as it is a true gift from God. I do have a weakness for the male tush :P

****

* * *

 

You let out a heavy sigh, dropping your tote bag onto the carpeted floor beneath your feet; carpet that has been heavily trotted over by heels, boots, and furry faux paws throughout the long day. You tilt your head back to rest on the concrete column pressed against your spine, gazing up at the balcony just above you. There, leaning against the glass railing, are a myriad of colorful costumed attendees, who seem to be staring back down at you. However, in reality, their gaze is held with sincere admiration, and perhaps longing, toward your friend, Erika. She is posing rather seductively for one of the many “professional photographers” who promised to make her the star of their next magazine spread. You aren’t even entirely sure who or what she is supposed to be. Too much skin, very little modesty, but a level of craftsmanship that is hard to ignore.  Clearly, she is something noteworthy, given how much everyone has been fawning over her since you arrived. The attention has caused you both to stop for photos with every few feet of progression toward the vendor hall, the one place you had even mild interest in investigating.

Erika had showed up at your hotel room at seven that morning, looking too perky before the sun could properly rise. Her fiancé, your co-worker Steve, had become sick with the flu, leaving her alone to bare the blunt of the con and its sometimes too-handsy attendees. He’d been texting you for the past week, asking about work, but mostly priming you up for the inevitability of a favor. Erika would need a body guard and given your lack of any social life, trapped in your apartment purgatory, you had become the perfect Plan B. You liked Steve, and more importantly, liked Erika. You had a soft spot for the curvaceous blonde who had a heart of gold, but the mental capacity of a twelve year-old.

You told Steve you had not attended a convention since your early college days, when you were much more heavily engrossed in geek culture. You’d recently taken a step back, to focus more on your professional career, to appear as if your head didn't permanently make its home up in the clouds. But Steve’s proposition had intrigued you. Not only did his offering of free coffee for a month peek your interest, but it had awoken a part of your soul you thought long forgotten, tethered down by business reports, tight pencil skirts, and midnight hours of overtime hunched over the glow of your laptop. The idea of delving back into a world of fantasy and carefree exploration made your heart start to race, fueled with renewed passion.

However, being a cosplayer’s assistant is not what you’d envisioned for the day. You set your eyes upon your Instagram feed, out of sheer boredom and regret. You are hungry, tired and done with being a forced handler for the day. That month of promised coffee begins to sound less and less tempting the longer you have to endure this day. But you force a smile as you notice Erika strutting back towards you, beaming from ear to ear.

“Isn’t this fun?” She squeals, breathing heavily. “My feet are killing me but I sort of signed up for that, didn’t I?”

She lifts her leg up for you to see. You eye her heeled boots with an eyebrow raised in amusement, the ribbon straps crisscrossing around her toned calf.

“You definitely did,” you say, laughing lightly.  

“Listen, the cosplay contest starts in a few minutes,” she says, adjusting her bedded bralette. “Will you be okay without me for a bit? I’ll text you when we are all done.”

“Sure thing. I wanted to check out the Artists’ Alley anyway.” You reach down, slinging your tote back over your shoulder.

“Great!’ She wraps her arms around your shoulders, her perfume intoxicatingly sweet. “You’re the best. You know that, right?” She presses her lips to your cheek, most likely marking you with her dark lipstick. But you smile and nod, watching as she prances away, blissfully unaware of the hundreds of eyes held to her bouncing breasts.

You walk into the vendor hall, pushing through large thongs of people, avoiding the stray tail, wing or pointy weapon that threatens to draw blood. When you finally make it to the Artists’ Alley, you slow your pace, taking in the offerings laid out on the fold-out tables. Prints, magnets, bookmarks, most of it the standard fare from anime, television, movies or comic books. But there are also some unusual addition amongst them. It is no secret that the world had become painfully obsessed with the Avengers since the attack on New York, the anniversary to which was fast approaching. Eight years, you remember. Eight years to rebuild, to recover, to forget. But the world hadn’t forgotten, clearly. They’d continued to revel in the victory over the Chitauri as if it were the only truth they could cling to for stability in this world. At almost every booth is an assortment of memorabilia dedicated to each one of those famed heroes, as if the endless news coverage of their exploits wasn’t enough. Foam hammers for Thor, magnetic arrows for Hawkeye, paper masks for Iron Man. It is all a bit childish, you decide.

You try not to scoff at a group of teenage girls as they push past you, touting their matching “I Heart Captain America” flair. You follow them toward a promising booth, crowded by onlookers. A tall, handsome man is to your right, scanning through available prints with an amused look on his face. His eyes lift momentarily as you approach but do not stay long, returning his gaze to the plastic binder in his hands. You pull your hair over your shoulder, nervously twirling the ends as you shuffle through a stack of vinyl decals. Your hand stops once you find one branded with the words “Hulk Smash!”

Reading into your hesitation incorrectly, the artist seated behind the table perks up and smiles. “Fan of the Avengers?” she asks, leaning forward against her folded hands.

You look up to greet her, setting the stack back down carefully.

“Not really,” you admit. The man peers back up at you. “Your work is great though.”

“Thanks,” she hums. “So, how come you don’t like em? No judgment, really.”

The young girls turn to eavesdrop.

“I… um…” You try to pick your next words carefully. “They are just… people, you know?” You say finally. “I just don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

The fangirls beside you turn with matching scowls, like some sort of clone bubblegum gang. Even the artist’s eyes widen, but only slightly, too polite to argue. “The fuss…” one of the three gang members begins. “Is that they save lives. They fight every day to protect us. Isn’t that important to you? Don’t you care?”

Annoyed, you opt for honesty, letting your words spew forth from your mouth like some sort of word vomit. “Firefighters and cops die everyday to keep your sorry ass safe. But I don’t see you buying pins for them.” You swallow hard, watching as her eyebrows lift in blatant shock. The girls behind her gasp in unison. The man simply chuckles. You shake your head, rubbing your fingers in circles against your temples, too good for negativity. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to sound like such a bitch. It’s been a long day.”

The artist’s silence, you realize, is far more forgiving than the young girl’s response, who mutters, “Cunt,” before turning back to her friends.

You roll your eyes, unphased by her petty rebuttal. You turn to the man instead, his hands still held to the binder of prints. Determined to buy back at least the artist’s forgiveness, you tap your fingers against his shoulder.

“Do you mind if I take a look at those when you are done?” You ask.

His eyes meet yours and in that brief moment of sincere connection, you watch in amazement as his irises shift between a brilliant emerald green to a hazy, boring brown. You blink, convinced you must have been hallucinating. Hazel eyes tended to shift with the lighting, you tell yourself.

“Go right ahead.” He hands over the binder to you with a smirk, his fingers brushing up over yours. His touch is unusually cold, desperate the lack of proper A/C in the convention hall.

You bury your gaze into the binder’s contents, trying not to look too flustered. It has been so long since you’ve been on a proper date that clearly even milder forms of attention can have an effect on you. _Pathetic. Get a grip_. You flip through the prints but stop when you notice a rather cruel caricature of Loki, the infamous instigator of the incident in New York. The so-called Asgardian Prince and God of Mischief. He is portrayed with crimson devil horns, his features exaggerated and grotesque. You’d only ever seen one real image of him, plastered on the front page of your local newspaper the day after New York. He had a crude looking muzzle over his mouth as if he were an animal, a beast needing to be restrained lest he lash out at his capturers with frothy, rabid teeth. But in his eyes, you saw a deep sadness that few people noticed that day. You wondered if, perhaps, he felt remorseful.

“What… uh… What prompted you to draw this one?” you ask the artist, holding up the blinder for her to see. The man gazes over your shoulder at the drawing, his face immediately twisting into an expression of blatant disgust.

The artist lets out a sigh. “I didn’t,” she admits. “My ex drew that one. But sadly, people are still interested in buying it.”

“I’d buy one,” the fangirl chimes in. “If he had a noose around his neck.”

You drop the binder, and turn on your heels, immediately fading back into the crowd, appalled beyond belief. _Teenagers these days. Ridiculous_. You push through the sweaty crowds of people in an attempt to find the food court and drown your anguish in a tall Styrofoam cup of black coffee.  

_This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong._

You slump into a deserted corner, hiding in the shadows to cool your rage. Why had it upset you so much? He is a villain, after all. He was responsible for that heinous attack. He killed hundreds of people but… had he? You were never one to believe every word the media printed. A skeptic.

You pull out your phone, ready to text Erika. Ready to leave this place and its ugly fangirls behind you.

“Got yourself a little too worked up back there, didn’t you?”

You peer up and find the man from the booth hovering over you. Again, you blink in disbelief as those eyes seem to change the longer you stare. “I’m fine,” you mutter, quickly drafting a message for Erika. _I’ll be at the hotel room. Meet me when you are done._

“You’re not fine.” His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Your eyes dance over his form. He is wearing a suit, a rather odd choice of attire for a place like this. You open your mouth to ask what he is supposed to be, what character, when he begins again. “Your heart is racing. I can practically hear it. Like a frightened little fawn.” He licks his lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

_Cute? He thinks this is… cute? What a strange man…_

“Okay, fine, I got a little angry,” you admit with a deep frown. “So what?”

“It’s rare to find anyone with compassion toward men like him,” he says. “So quick to judge. Lemmings, the lot of them. I thought mortals were more sympathetic than that.”

_Mortals? He must be in character. And very committed to his role at that._

“And are you sympathetic towards him?” you ask, deciding to play along. You fold your arms over your chest and gaze up at him with a sort of regrettable intrigue. “Do you pity Loki?”

He scuffs at your question but presses closer. “Pity? No, I don’t _pity_ him.” He rests a hand beside your head, leaning forward against his palm. “Do you?”

“I don’t feel anything towards the man,” you answer, suddenly uncomfortable with his proximity to you. You can smell his sinful aroma encapsulating around you both, like a storm cloud of musky sex holding you in. Your nipples harden as his breath cascades down your neck. You shift away slightly. However, any further movement is blocked as his other hand lifts to pin you in against the wall. Both hands are held to either side of your head.

“No?” His smirks down at you. His eyes are fully green now. They glow with an unearthly brilliance you’ve never seen before in a man. It makes your heart stall. “I think you might feel something.”

“Like what?” You dare to ask, brows folded in annoyance.

“You’d bed him, given the chance.”

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. You shove hard against his chest, fueled by the force of all your pent-up aggravation. He stumbles away, looking too pleased with himself.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, pushing past him toward the exit. You don’t make it too far, however. His hand reaches out to grip firmly to your forearm, halting your escape.

“Why? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” you argue. “Get your hands off me!”

He pulls you tight into the same chest you had just smacked away. He forces your face down to bury into the stiff fabric of his suit, to breath him in. His arm wraps around your waist, his fingers settling on your hip to push up the fabric of your shirt enough to graze your exposed skin beneath. You stifle a moan that betrays your better judgement, leaving your lips without hesitation.

“Let’s play a little game, shall we?” he laughs. “I’ll proposition you with scenarios. You simply tell me if you’d oblige. Understand?”

“What is wrong with you,” you mutter, struggling against his hold whilst fighting a growing sense of defeat under his smooth caress.

“I’ll happily release you if you play along,” he growls. “So be obedient for once in your life.”

Your eyes widen and you still all movement. “Fine...”

“Would you hand him over to authorities if he appeared before you?” he asks. The first of many questions in this little game of his.

 _Him… He must mean Loki. This guy is obsessed_. “It depends,” you answer after some considerable time, deep in thought. “Why would he be back on Earth?”

“Perhaps he wants to try his hand at world domination again.” You can hear the devilish smirk laced within his voice. “Or maybe he is just curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“What Midgardians do to bide their time,” he replies, rubbing circles into your hips. “What they do to entertain themselves.”

“I’m sure he’d find us all rather boring.” You arch your back involuntarily, pleasantly aroused by the way he massages your flesh. It’s been too long. Too long since you found release by anything other than your own hand. And there is something about this man, even while he aggravates you to no end, that makes you want to surrender.

“Most.” His hand slides up underneath the fabric of your shirt to graze your perked nipple, barely concealed beneath your unlined bra. And you don’t stop him. “But not you, darling. You are anything but boring.”

“I thought this game was about Loki,” you argue, your words broken by a rich moan as he plays with your nipple, flicking his fingertip over the sensitive bundle of nerves. Disgusted with your own behavior, you force yourself to search for an ounce of logic, to pull yourself from his seductive allure. “This isn’t about what you want.” You shove his hand away, straightening out your shirt and attempting to step away.

“Oh?” he laughs, leaning down to whisper into your ear, pulling you back into his embrace. His cool sexy voice sends shivers down your spine. “Then let’s make this about what you want. Tell me, how long has it been since a man has touched you?”

You spin around to look at him with a glare. “Or a woman,” he adds with a strange smile. “I’m not one to assume. And that friend of yours is rather attractive, don’t you think?”

“You’ve been watching me?” Your eyes widen. “How long have you…”

“Long enough to know you were in much need of rescuing,” he hums, inching his hands back in place against your hips. As if they belonged there. “So, tell me. How long?”

“That’s not really any of your business,” you snap.

“It really wasn’t my business to be fondling your breasts either,” he laughs. “And yet you just gladly let me do that in the middle of this Midgardian gathering.” His smirk is cruel and mischievous. “So lewd, pet. So truly desperate to be pleasured.”

He reaches forward and captures your chin between his fingertips. “How long?” he asks again sternly. “I won’t ask you again.”

There is something about the way he imposes his control over you that makes your legs weak beneath his caress. Makes you want to tell him all of your dark desires. Makes you want to feel those sinful lips that gleam down at you with malicious intent.

“A few months,” you admit in a sigh. _Why am I telling him this?_

“A few months too long,” he replies, leaning down to allow his lips to gently brush against yours. You part your mouth, eager to taste more. “A beautiful woman such as yourself should have her body worshipped day and night.” His lips fully meet yours and you allow his tongue to slide inside, to dance along your own. "Such a waste..." You press your body fully against him as you moan into his mouth. You reach up to bury your fingers into his hair, to pull him down further, to continue your mutual ruin.

“Get a room!” a con-goer shouts behind you, making you painfully aware of your surroundings. A burning heat rushes up over your cheeks. The man tilts his head back in laughter before leaning back down to kiss your neck. 

“Perhaps we should…”

It doesn’t take long for you to make it back to your hotel room. He pushes you against the door as you fumble for your key, buried in the depths of your tote bag. His hands have been all over you since you stepped into the hotel elevator, his lips exploring every inch of exposed skin. He seemed to delight in the way onlookers gawked at your behavior, smirking up from your neck before resuming the creation of a mark against your skin.

You both stumble into the room, half drunk on mutual desire. You fall against your bed, stripping every article of your clothing off in a haste.

“So eager,” he mocks once you are rid of your shirt and shorts.

“Shut up and get naked.” You sit up to work with the buttons of his shirt, his coat discarded at the door. The buttons come undone even before you can reach them. You chose not to question it, gladly sliding your hands beneath the loosened fabric to help guide it off his shoulders. He unbuckles his pants and pushes you back down onto the bed. He lifts your legs, kissing up your inner thigh from the curve of your knee to your hot mound, barely concealed beneath a pair of sheer lace panties. His mouth hovers over your sex, blowing lightly to tease you further. Before you can speak, he pulls the fabric aside and kisses your moist inner lips, moaning against your skin.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls in appreciation before his tongue laps up your juices with great enthusiasm.

“How long has it been for you?” you mock as you push against the top of his head, needing more of his delicious tongue. More pressure, more friction.

“Too long,” he growls. He flicks the tip of his tongue over your swollen clit, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. Your knees buckle against either side of his head.

“Clearly not too long,” you say in a breathy moan. “You are really good at that for being rusty. How long… come on, tell me.”

“Give or take a couple decades.”

You struggle to sit up, convinced you must have misheard him when he pulls away, lining his groin up against you. He pulls his cock free from the confines of his trousers and you gape at the sight of it, red and pulsating in his hand. He guides the head of his cock toward your eager pussy, ready to continue your fun. You push against his chest in urgency.

“Stop,” you insist, though your breathing is heavy and your thighs clench tight around his waist, as a means of emphasizing your true need. “Do you have a condom?”

“We won’t be needing one,” he answers, sliding his bare, blushing tip just past your parted, wet mound. You gasp, shoving harder against him.

“No! Wait! We can’t do this. We need protection.”

“I’d prefer there not to be a barrier between us, my darling girl,” he purrs, with a sort of cruel smile swept up over his thin lips. “Don’t you want to feel every inch of my skin inside of you? Doesn’t it feel better this way?”

“Yes, but I…” you moan deeply as he shoves even further inside of you. The way his cock rubs against you leaves you weak to his advances. You’ve never had unprotected sex and curse yourself for not immediately stopping him the moment this started. Especially now that you know just how good it feels. How impossible it will be to go back to your old ways now that you’ve gotten a taste for this sinful new horizon. “Please, I can’t get pregnant. Just… pull out,” you practically beg, your face red with embarrassment. You bury your head into his shoulder, feet raised high and rested against his back.

“Why would I do something like that when I can fill your warm cunt to the brim with my cum?” He licks the expanse of your neck, up to your ear before nibbling and pulling on your lobe. You moan in defeat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my little whore?”

He thrusts all the way inside, stuffing your dripping pussy with the length of his sex. You impatiently push down the waist band of his trousers enough that you can palm the round globes of his firm ass. You encourage him to continue moving with the guidance of your hands, shoving his pelvis towards you. He growls in pleasure, biting your neck as he obeys, beginning to thrust, in and out. Your wetness sloshes around him with each movement as he increases his speed inside of you. Before you realize what he doing, his hand clamps around your throat, restricting your breathing just enough to leaves you wide eyed and frightened. But you swear it makes you even wetter.

“You love my cock, don’t you, dirty girl?” he moans. “Say it. Say you want daddy’s cum.”

Your eyes widen further. You’d never once had a man speak to you like this in bed. You barely heard any of your past lovers speak at all, save for a few muttered curses before cumming. But this… this is something new. Something you never realized you desired. You begin to moan in earnest, the sound strained against the hold of his hand, making it hard to even breathe. He loosens his grip, enough for you to reply.

“I want it,” you admit in defeat, completely held in the power of his allure. “I want every last drop of your cum, daddy.”

He growls in approval, smiling down at you. He reaches between your bodies, pressed so deliciously together, to rub hard against your clit. It is already desperate for attention, still swollen and throbbing.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs into your neck. “So deserving. Do you want to cum, sweet thing? Cum on it. Make daddy’s cock all nice and wet.”

You grind your hips in circles against him, chasing your release. And in your drunken haze of impending climax, you rest your hands affectionately against the back of his neck, gazing up at him with eyes brimming with desire.

“Please, tell me your name,” you beg. You are so close you can taste the kindling flames of release licking your loins, teasing you with the promise of delivery. “I want to moan your name when I cum. Please…”

He stares at you for a moment and in his gaze you can tell that his mind is racing, sorting through consequences you could not yet fathom. But he gives in, leaning down to kiss your lips gently before he whispers into your mouth. “Loki. My name is Loki.”

Your eyes go impossibly wide as if to dislodge from your skull. You shove against his shoulders, ending the sweet beginnings of his kiss. You cover your quivering lips with your hand, barely breathing as you watch his face change, the former façade sliding off in a wave of glowing emerald magic.

He looks nothing like his caricature. 

“Get away from me!” you scream, squirming beneath him. You slap your hand hard across his cheek. But it doesn't slow him down. He thrusts harder, faster and with much regret, you cum screaming his name. You dig your nails into his back, hoping to draw blood as the powerful force of your orgasm leaves you weak beneath him. The walls of your pussy clench down tight around his cock and you close your eye tightly shut, afraid to look at him. But you can feel as his cock pulsates within you as you ride the last few waves of your release cascading through your lower body.

"You are a monster," you cry out, muttering a few final moans. 

“I am, aren't I?" He pulls out of you slowly, still hard and needing his own release. Strings of your wetness pull free from between your thighs, held to the tip of his cock now rested against your pelvis. "Would you have said no if you’d known?” he asks in a soft, almost sad whisper. “Would you have let me make love to you?”

Something breaks within you then, a crack forming in the very fragile seam of your frigid heart. It is the same sensation you’d once felt when you saw his image in the newspaper. No one truly knows him. No one has bothered to try.

You push him completely away, causing him to shuffle onto his feet beside the bed. He stares at you in bewilderment, and perhaps, deep disappointment. You watch as his mouth opens, as a wave of cruel rage slithers up his spine ready to drown you in his venomous hatred. But before you can let him speak, you kneel before him. You grip onto his ass and pull him toward your open, awaiting mouth, taking his cock deep into your throat. He slumps forward against you, gripping onto your scalp with a groan of relinquished pleasure. You move your mouth up and down over his long shaft, swirling your tongue around him until you can taste the flavor of your mutual pleasure, salty and sweet against his cock. You hear him above you, muttering, “I’m going to cum… fuck yes, just like that.”

You feel him release in hot spurts down into your throat. You swallow, contracting your throat around him to increase his pleasure. Once he has neared completion, you pull your lips up over the length of his cock, licking his overstimulated head clean of the remaining, glistening tendrils of cum.

“I wouldn’t have said no,” you tell him, licking your lips.

“Liar.” He reaches down to pull you back onto your feet. Weak, you lean into his chest to support all of your weight against his hold. His fingers find your dripping pussy, lazily rubbing back and forth against your swollen, used lips. “Lie to me again.”

"I hate you," you growl before colliding your lips with his, rough enough to bruise. 

"And yet you'll let me fuck you again, won't you?" he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you down with a squeal so that you are lying on your stomach across his lap. He rubs circles into your bare ass before smacking his palm hard against you. "Isn't that right, kitten? Tell me you want daddy's cock."

"I want your cock, Loki," you murmur, mischievously, tilting your head to the side to look at him. "Loki," you say again in a purr, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you playfully sing his name. 

He laughs and throws you back onto the bed, barely giving you a moment to protest. Not that you would. Not anymore. 

A knock at the door causes you both to stall, looking at each other with mild amusement mixed with the thread of aggression. Erika calls your name from the other side of the door.

"Are you in there? Can I come in?" she asks sweetly.

"She's a little busy at the moment!" Loki calls back cruelly before shoving his already hardened cock back inside of you. You stifle a moan by bitting your lip hard. Your mouth floods with the metallic taste of blood.

"Oh," Erika fumbles to say. "Are you sure you're alright?" She's worried. You can hear it in her voice.

"Yes! I'm okay!" you call back. "Fuck yes! I'm fucking fantastic!" 

* * *

 

Dazed and mildly delirious from several more fervent sessions of love-making, you walk back into the convention center, sore and blushing. But this time, you aren't alone. The God of Mischief holds his hand possessively around your waist. This time, he no longer wears a mask, sporting traditional Asgardian leather for added effect. He holds his head high with pride, for all the world to see. He pulls you back into Artist’s Alley, back toward the same booth where you first met.

“Still have any more of those wonderful Loki prints?” he asks with a devilish smile meant for the artist. She lifts her head up from the sketch she is working on. Her wide eyes dance from you to Loki with blatant confusion.

“You look… You look a lot like him,” she stutters. “That’s an amazing cosplay! Did you make that yourself?”

“No, that’s the work for servants,” he replies with mild annoyance. “Now, do you have the prints or not?”

“Yea… just a few actually.”

“I’ll take one off your hands.” His hand slides up your back, under the fabric of your shirt to trace his fingers up and down over your tender flesh. “I’d like to get it as a gift for my brother. I’m sure he will be very pleased with it.”

“Sure… of course.” She fumbles with a stack of prints before locating the cruel depiction of the man who stood before her. “Just the one?”

“Two actually.”

Loki turns to look at you, with an eyebrow raised in question. You lean in and whisper, “Something to remember you by." 

His eyes widen. “I’m not going anywhere,” he mutters. “Do you think I’m going somewhere?”

“Well I assumed…"

“You assume too much,” he laughs, pulling you tight against his side. He leans in and adds in a whisper. “Now that I’ve had a taste of your sweet cunt, I’m never letting you go.”

“Good.” You turn, planting an unexpected kiss upon his lips. “I don’t want you to.”

He smiles against your mouth just as the artist clears her throat mumbling, “That will be forty dollars.”


End file.
